


Parachute

by ziparumpazoo



Series: Epilogue to an Epilogue [2]
Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Car Accidents, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Unvarnished police work, implied non-canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 18:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17688296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziparumpazoo/pseuds/ziparumpazoo
Summary: He still doesn’t know how Martha did it all those years, being the one waiting at home.





	Parachute

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not sure I buy Cady being elected sheriff, but it works for this scenario. Thanks again to tree for the input. Any mistakes belong to me, myself, and autocorrect.

It’s only because Ruby calls ahead and gives Walt the heads up that he’s not pacing the floor when Vic’s unit finally pulls into the driveway. It takes her a while to cut the engine, and even longer to drag herself out of the driver’s seat, so by the time her boots stump heavily up the porch steps, he’s waiting for her without looking like he’s been waiting. 

He still doesn’t know how Martha did it all those years, being the one waiting at home. 

“I need a drink,” is all Vic says as she pushes past him and starts shedding clothes on her way to the bathroom. First her duty belt flung over the back of a chair, then her uniform shirt in the bathroom doorway.

He doesn’t ask about the blood. Fortunately, he knows it’s not hers this time. 

Walt opens the cupboard for a glass and that particular bottle of vodka. He doesn’t have to ask; he’s been there before. It’s cheap liquor and it burns going down. Tonight she’s not going to want kindness. 

It’s too quiet in the cabin for too long, so he decides to hell with giving her a little privacy. Vic would never leave him to himself if the roles were reversed.

She never has. 

He finds Vic stalled out on the edge of the bathtub with one boot in her hand, the other halfway toed off. Walt sets the bottle and the glass on the edge of the sink. The noise of glass on porcelain seems almost too loud in the space between them. 

He sits himself on the closed toilet lid and takes the boot from her hand. The second one, he slides off her foot, then lines the pair up by the door. Her hands wrap around around the edge of the bathtub, her knuckles white. She’s staring at the floor, past the boots.

“Ruby said it was a bad one,” he says to break the silence.

Vic opens her mouth, but whatever she might have said seems to get stuck so that all that comes out is a croaked “Yeah.”

Walt hands her the glass and she knocks back the two fingers of liquor with barely a grimace. When she finally looks up at him, he can see her eyes are still wet and red. He remembers nights like this, wrecked cars and broken teenage bodies and wasted potential. He remembers being so angry at their stupid drunken decisions, at yet another set of roadside crosses. But he’s always been the one at the scene of the accident, not the one waiting at home to witness the aftermath. Martha would have known how to handle this, but Walt finds himself at a loss for what to say next.

Vic wipes her eyes with the back of her wrist and saves him the trouble. “You know, I was just at the high school last week, that community outreach program we’ve got going on now. I did a talk with them about impaired driving.” She pushes off from the tub and stands, empty glass dangling loose between her fingers as she smoothes back her hair with the other hand. “Idiots.”

Walt nods. He thinks knows how this is going to go now. The anger is there, simmering just beneath her words. 

“One of the kids tonight…” She shakes her head, as if it will clear away the images he knows are probably burnt into her memory. “One of the girls, she was on their graduation committee. Set the whole talk up.” She turns to him. “Walt, what did I miss? How didn’t I get through to them? It was just last week.”

At this, Walt finds himself surprised again. The anger he was expecting is there, yes, but it’s not directed at the kids and their adolescent sense of indestructibility. Her reaction is outside of his frame of reference and he’s not sure what to say.

“Vic, you couldn’t have known.” It sounds a little pathetic to his own ears. 

She turns to him, a bit of fire restored. “But I should have, Walt. It’s not like I’ve never been one of those kids who does stupid things.”

“And you learned from your mistakes. We all do.”

“They won’t.”

The bathroom suddenly seems smaller than it is. She’s painfully correct and Walt doesn’t have any experience, either Martha’s or his own, to draw on. Instead, he fill her glass again and then edges past her out the door to give her space to get cleaned up. He thinks about what usually comes next.

He pauses and leans against the doorframe. “Who informed the families?”

Vic takes a sip. “I was primary on the scene, so Cady did it.” She sets the glass aside and starts undressing again, shucking her jeans into the corner. “It’s her first time doing this as sheriff. You should give her a call.” The sudden quiet of her voice doesn’t leave room to argue. Vic hands him her phone and closed the bathroom door, the sound of running water following shortly after. 

Walt dials, then listens to the voicemail pick up. He’s not surprised Cady isn’t answering, but he leaves a short message anyhow, telling her he’s here if she wants to talk. 

Without anything else to do, he gathers up Vic’s uniform and puts it into the washing machine to soak the blood out. He figures it’s unlikely that she’ll be hungry, but he scrounges up the makings of a sandwich, just in case. 

He’s unaccustomed to the job of caretaker in the relationship - that was always the role Martha took on before she got sick, but he remembers how grateful he’d been when he’d come home after a terrible night on the job and she’d stayed up to wait for him, her presence enough to shield him from his own harsh self-judgement. Maybe him being here can be enough for Vic tonight.

Walt settles into the armchair, finger marking his place in a book he’s not really reading, and waits.

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from the Chris Stapleton song of the same name. It felt apropos, even though I thought the line was ‘I’ll be your pair of shoes’ for the longest time.


End file.
